


The Catastrophe of Falling in Love

by favouritefi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2688038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/favouritefi/pseuds/favouritefi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwen had a problem.</p><p>She only knew it was truly a <i>huge</i> problem when she woke up one Sunday with a pair of wet panties on her hips, and Mycroft’s name on her lips.</p><p>Fuck she was so screwed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just need more Mystrade Femslash in my life.

Gwen had a problem.

 

She only knew it was truly a _huge_ problem when she woke up one Sunday with a pair of wet panties on her hips, and Mycroft’s name on her lips.

 

Fuck she was so screwed.

 

As any tragic teen love story will tell you; it is a supremely ill-advised idea to fall for your friend’s hot sister. (So hot.) Especially when said sister is _the British bloody government_ and likely to deport you if she knew of your feelings. (Not so hot.)

 

(...Okay maybe a little hot.)

 

Thus began Gwenevere's big game of chicken.

 

She made sure not to linger too long around Sherlock after a crime scene. She didn’t enter 221B when there appeared to be louder shouting than usual. Every single black car seemed to tail her and so she began taking unnecessarily long detours to avoid them. But just because the DI can dodge one Holmes doesn’t mean she can dodge both. She was attempting to convince Sherlock to take a case (with Joan on Gwen’s side) when the wild haired detective stood up with careless grace and pointed at the DI.

 

“You have been neglecting Mycroft.”

 

A confused Joan stared dumbfounded at this seemingly random sentence.

 

And a scared shit-less Gwen was wholeheartedly considering jumping out the window.

 

While the two were pondering over Sherlock’s outburst the long legged lady skipped over the coffee table and invaded Gwen’s personal space with a maniacal expression of glee.

 

“Why?”

 

The DI thinks maybe getting deported won’t be so bad, she’s always wanted to go to Morocco.

 

“Sherlock,” Joan, ever the rational one in times like these, bestowed upon her flatmate a troubled look.

 

“What the bloody _fuck_ are you talking about?”

 

At this the detective springed into further dramatics, her dressing gown twirling as she spinned to face Joan.

 

“Lestrade usually visits our flat twice every week, but it has now been two weeks and this is her first visit. This is also one of the few moments wherein my stick-up-her-arse sister isn’t ransacking our flat.” Sherlock began pacing.

 

“Lestrade and Mycroft usually call each other because Mycroft deems texting a ‘bastardization of communication’ and yet…”

 

Sherlock’s eyes pinned down Gwen once again.

 

“You just got a text from her.”

 

Lestrade’s phone binged. Before the flustered DI could protest Sherlock had already nicked it and began casually punching in the passcode.

 

“This change was obviously not Mycroft’s suggestion. No, it was quite certainly Lestrade’s.” A wicked grin sliced itself across Sherlock’s face as she scrolled through Gwen’s texts.

 

“Sherlock that’s private!” Joan protested seeing as Lestrade couldn’t really defend herself with her face in her hands.

 

“The Inspector’s excuse was along the lines of ‘it’s difficult to respond discreetly to phone calls’ and my dastardly stupid sister allowed her to live that lie.”

 

“Sherlock... _Stop. It._ ”

 

“However during the few times we have managed to speak with Lestrade in these past weeks she was much more pliable than usual and did not reveal any signs of discomfort. Masturbation is a rather effective stress reliever-”

 

“ _Holy shit Sherlock you can’t just-!!_ ”

 

“-and thus we can conclude Lestrade isn’t simply sick of Mycroft (though she ought to be). No, no, no. This is _so_ much more interesting than that juvenile case she was attempting to force upon me.”

 

Sherlock narrowed predatory eyes at Gwen.

 

“Two weeks and three days ago you had an epiphany.”

 

The madwoman raised herself to her full height as if in victorious triumph and once again pointed a finger at her garishly red victim.

 

“You. Fancy. Mycroft.”

 

A pause.

 

“Yeah, yeah, we all know that Sherlock. But the question is, why do you care?”

 

Two sets of eyes snapped to Joan.

 

The doctor supposed Gwen and Sherlock’s open-mouthed shock would have been absolutely comical if Joan wasn’t so bloody fed up with the both of them.

 

She sighed and feared she may be the only level-headed person on this planet.

 

Watson mumbled under her breath, just barely loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “Come now, have you seen the way Mycroft and Gwen eye each other?” Joan turned to Gwen. “Mycroft laughs, _actually laughs_ , at your jokes and wit. Which is just all kinds of unnerving.” Joan turned to her flatmate. “And since you’re a bloody self proclaimed ‘genius’ you _must_ have noticed how Mycroft always, _always_ , lets you win your silly fights when Gwen is in the room!”

 

Judging by Sherlock’s contemplative look and Gwen’s mortified shame neither knew the facts were so stupidly obvious. Joan ran a weary hand through her short blond bob.

 

“ _Oh my god._ You two are utter morons.”

  
She craved tea very badly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen meets Mycroft.

Mycroft was a bombshell babe.

 

Curves and a cutting smile hidden under immaculate suits.

 

Gwen wanted to unravel her.

 

But that would have to be saved for later because said babe had just kidnapped a police officer (Gwenevere) and has taken her to an isolated location (an abandoned warehouse) with the intent to harm (probably).

 

Thus began their first meeting.

 

The DI had just finished a necessary but stressful 16 hour shift and looked like she’d just ran through hell twice. 

 

(Really it was just the alleyways of London but at times that can be worse than hell.)

 

Gwen felt a delirious twinge of jealousy at how put together the stranger across from her was. A short reddish-brown bob curled perfectly around high cheekbones and elegant makeup. Manicured hands rested upon a sleek umbrella and a black pencil skirt stretched tight across fantastic legs. 

 

Gwen thinks she might have just aquired a suit fetish.

 

The grey haired DI shook her head. This was not the time or the place to check out her captor, no matter how sleep deprived she is.

 

“Detective Inspector Gwenevere Lestrade.”

 

The imposing woman’s voice was soft spoken lullabies and solid punches.

 

“A pleasure to meet you.”

 

“I’m not sure I can say the same.”

 

“Understandable. Allow me to convince you.”

 

_Don’t think dirty thoughts Don’t think dirty thoughts Don’t think dirty thoughts_

 

A red dot appeared upon the DI’s forehead.

 

_...I really should have expected this._

 

The stranger smiled like Armageddon and placed herself delicately upon a velvet armchair. She gestured to the one opposite from her with the twirl of a black umbrella.

 

“Please.”

 

Gwen did not move.

 

The lady sighed as if Lestrade’s stubbornness was purely impolite and nothing else, like she hadn’t just bloody _kidnapped someone_ and _threatened to shoot them_. 

 

“Have a seat Gwenevere, we are going to be here for some time.”

 

The DI grinded her jaw. She did not sit.

 

There was a silent duel between conflicting storms. 

 

Gwen was testing the other's intent and her own value. If the DI was worth kidnapping does that also mean she's worth being kept alive? She wanted to know. She wanted to see. She wanted to understand.

 

The stranger wanted to kill Gwen very badly, but that's far too inconvenient.

 

The attractive woman tilted her head, then tapped her umbrella twice upon the concrete floor. The red light disappeared and with it Lestrade’s strained shoulders. She flopped into a grubby heap on her own plush chair, heartbeat restless. Opposite to her the stranger uncrossed and recrossed her legs as Gwen attempted with hopefully hidden effort to not stare at them.

 

They were a mere meter apart.

 

The DI tilted her head.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

Umbrella-wielding-stranger squinted her eyes.

 

“That is irrelevant.”

 

“Not to me.”

 

Gwen leaned in, she could almost touch her captor, she was so close.

 

“And really, it’s unfair and rude for you to know my name but not tell me yours.”

 

“There is no practical advantage for me to reveal that information.”

 

“It would make talking about your sister a hell of a lot easier.”

 

At these words Lestrade was rewarded with a smile, the awkward kind that didn’t really match the intimidating woman’s face but looked so wondrously beautiful anyways. Like she was, somehow, relieved. And maybe just a tad surprised. Also irritated. Really, really irritated.

 

“What gave me away?”

 

“Posh accent, pretentious air, and weak chin.” Gwen tapped her own for emphasis. “Runs in the family I guess.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“So, what's your name?”

 

The woman stared at her prisoner with a blank sort of cruelty and the DI pointedly looked anywhere but the other’s eyes. Yet even with intense avoidance Gwen knew that all her secrets were being laid bare with clinical viciousness. 

 

Seems genius also runs in the family.

 

Gwenevere's kidnapper maintained the silence, pushing it until Gwen was sure she wasn’t gonna come out of this alive and dammit she had just paid her rent too and her takeaway was gonna get cold and-

 

“Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Gwen blinked. Her slow smile was so ill-placed upon such a tired face. Her whisper far too intimate for their conversation.

  
“Mycroft Holmes...should have known you’d have a posh name too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft meets Gwen.

Mycroft first saw Gwenevere through the lenses of grainy surveillance cameras.

 

She was unextraordinary.

 

Her shockingly silver hair was a mere side effect of stress from both her occupation and her recent divorce. The choice to let the deterioration of her body occur naturally was simply because the woman was too busy to waste concern upon appearances and needlessly expensive dyes. Yet even without makeup or pre-proposed premises, Mycroft knew (in the same way she knew the Queen's postal code,) that Gwenevere was considered unconventionally attractive. The DI's haircut was undoubtedly short for convenience, but her lips and smile were completely alluring. Brown eyes are rarely waxed poetic about, but Gwen's held a soft beckoning light that was at once vulnerable and commanding.

 

The Detective Inspector was respected with the kind of anonymous appreciation that falls upon anyone within law enforcement. Much like the awe bestowed upon individuals in medical fields it was a given, expected, and thus meaningless fame.

 

But respected she still was.

 

And thus beyond hope, for hope is not a thing tangible to Mycroft any longer, there was an anticipation that Gwen would be different when handling Sherlock. That she would find some method of anchoring her wayward sister. That the 17th try is the lucky one.

 

The slam of a door was the actual conclusion.

 

The older Holmes reclined in her armchair, her hands folded in front of her face and covering her pursed lips in the pose Sherlock is so fond of. But she didn’t look right. Mycroft appeared to be an imitation, her gesture a useless impulse that had been pushed down after many years of purposeful negligence. It was the pained kind of action that only resurfaced in times of true distress.

 

Holmes closed her eyes and breathed.

 

Sherlock has begun experimenting in not only the consumption but also the creation of drugs. The girl is nothing if not creative and Mycroft…

 

Mycroft _worries._

 

She fears the unavoidable incident wherein she can longer protect her baby sister. She fears with a pretense that does not feel like her own, that she does not wish to own.

 

Sherlock is the only attachment she cannot shake.

 

Sherlock was shouting.

 

Mycroft cracked open one eye and then snapped wide both to fully capture the scene upon her screen.

 

Lestrade was back.

 

Sherlock was ecstatic. (But hiding it very well.)

 

There were several Mount Everests made entirely of case files upon case files laid across the metal table of the interrogation room. Sherlock scavenged each pile with a shameless frenzy Mycroft did not realize she had missed. 

 

Her sister looked...happy.

 

Stupidly, deliriously, happy.

 

Mycroft recalled a similar face belonging to a far younger Sherlock, still graced with baby fat and youth, who brandished a balloon sword with boastful gusto and declared Mycroft a “scandalous sea wench”. (The child was also thoroughly chastised by Mummy and thus learned the first lesson every kid learns: if you are about to commit an atrocious act, make sure Mum is out of earshot first.)

 

The older Holmes smiled. An uncomfortable tightening of lips at memories she knows only weaken her, but are also the only reason she bothers with the world at all.

 

On screen the DI and Sherlock were locked in an intense debate regarding sobriety. Lestrade was taut and Sherlock was a hurricane of protests mixed with well-balanced rage.

 

Mycroft felt the familiar worry return once more. She also recalled yet another Sherlock, one with the same baby fat but all youthful innocence drained, screaming obscenities as one of the neighborhood boys set her pirate ship treehouse on fire. Mycroft recalled tears. Mycroft recalled anger.

 

Mycroft recalled that particular boy now works at a minimum wage job with no benefits.

 

The older Holmes smiled like unbridled danger, and promised she would protect her sister. She reminded herself that she _could._

  
And thus the plan to harass Detective Inspector Lestrade was formed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh sorry for late posting!! End of school and start of holidays have been KILLING me.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will probably end up being 6-7 chapters, depending on the interest people have for it. So far 3 chapters have been written and I will be (hopefully) posting each Sunday.
> 
> As always, comments are highly appreciated!~


End file.
